A Gift to Remember
Also by Melissa Hill
Something You Should Know
Not What You Think
Never Say Never
All Because of You
Wishful Thinking The
Last to Know
Before I Forget
Please Forgive Me
The Truth About You
Something From Tiffany’s
The Charm Bracelet
The Guest List
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Melissa Hill 2013
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Melissa Hill to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
HB ISBN: 978-1-47112-761-8
TPB ISBN: 978-1-47112-762-5
EBOOK ISBN: 978-147112-764-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Sabon by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
To Dad, with lots of love
Melissa Hill answers your Twitter and Facebook questions:
She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain.
Louisa May Alcott
Anyone who says that money can’t buy happiness has clearly never been inside a bookstore. And certainly not one like Chaucer’s, Darcy Archer thought proudly,
glancing around the gorgeous place she was lucky enough to work in.
The space was snug and inviting, with a vaguely Dickensian feel to it by way of its floor-to-ceiling hardwood shelves and filigreed gold signwriting above each section. The Victorian panelled
bay window and festive-themed window display evoked old-fashioned storefronts of times gone by, as did the scroll-effect store sign hanging just outside the entrance.
Catering to its well-heeled Upper West Side neighbourhood, the little shop carried an eclectic mix of literature in a variety of genres, early edition classics as well as popular bestsellers for
adults and children. Booklovers and gift-seekers alike adored Chaucer’s; its cheerful, experienced staff and homey atmosphere made it the perfect place to spend an afternoon wandering amongst
the shelves or hunting down an elusive title.
At this time of year, with just over a week to go before Christmas, the store was decked out in its holiday finest: fairy lights strung along the shelves, homemade glitter snowflakes hanging
from the exposed rafters above, and the evocative aroma of cinnamon wafting from the tiny café on the first-floor.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a book . . .’
Darcy glanced up from the shelving cart to see an older woman hovering uncertainly nearby. She looked to be in her late fifties, well-maintained and manicured, dressed in an expensive coat and
scarf and clutching one of the last decade’s most luxurious handbags, which Darcy knew, thanks to her fashion maven Aunt Katherine, was easily worth at least three of her monthly pay
checks.
Looking for a book in a bookstore? If she only had a dollar for every time she’d heard
that
one, Darcy thought to herself.
But she gave the woman a warm smile. ‘Let’s see if I can help. What’s the title?’
The woman bit her lip. ‘That’s it – I can’t remember, but I know it’s by a female author with three names . . . and there are four daughters in it, although one has
a boy’s name, I think. And it’s Christmas-time, and as far as I know they want to buy themselves presents, but then think better of it and buy one for their mother . . .’ The
woman’s voice trailed off, and she stared at the shelves helplessly.
Darcy slipped a stray lock of raven-black hair behind one ear. No matter what she did with it – which admittedly was little – it would never stay put. ‘Is this a new
release?’ she asked.
‘Oh no, my dear, it’s a classic.’ The woman’s eyes refocused and her voice grew almost haughty. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know it. Have you been working
here long?’
Darcy had to smile. Actually she was manager of Chaucer’s and had been working in the store for almost six years. Yet she was supposed, with minimum description, to magically identify the
book in question amongst the millions published.
Still, she did love a challenge . . .
‘Now, you say there are four sisters, and an author with three names?’ she said, gently guiding the woman towards the classic literature aisle. The customer nodded. Overhead, a
smooth jazz rendition of ‘It Must Have Been the Mistletoe’ played softly through the speakers. ‘Well, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you may well be looking for
Little Women
by Louisa May Alcott.’
The woman grimaced. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘There are four sisters in the book, and one of them – Jo – has a vaguely masculine name.’ Darcy pulled a thin red book from the shelf, the pages edged with gold, and
presented it to the woman.
‘Oh,’ she said, taking it. ‘That is
beautiful
.’ She examined the book from bottom to top and inside and out, marvelling at its rich leather binding, and the
original illustrations scattered throughout.
‘Is it intended as a gift?’ Darcy asked.
The woman smiled. ‘Yes. A Christmas present for my twelve-year-old granddaughter.’
Darcy guessed that the girl’s grandmother was acting on a recommendation and had never had the pleasure of reading
Little Women
herself.
Which was a shame.
It was one of Darcy’s favourites, and Alcott’s famous quote about books turning the brain described her pretty well. Darcy was indeed too fond of books – a condition known as
‘bibliolatry’. She always had at least one book on the go close by, and felt almost naked without a novel on her person. Darcy had been enveloped in a story every single day of her life
for as long as she could remember, and tended to use every opportunity – waiting in line, eating, occasionally even while brushing her teeth – to indulge in her greatest pleasure.
It was one of the reasons she loved working in Chaucer’s.
Darcy had first made the move as a teenager to Manhattan from Brooklyn where she lived with her Aunt Katherine, to attend Columbia University and get a Master of Fine Arts in Writing – the
closest form of study relating to her passion that was available. Only to quickly discover that trying to create stories herself was a world apart from the joy of reading them. Easy reading
definitely didn’t equate to easy writing, and the weight of her own expectations, combined with insecurity regarding the extent of her talent (or lack thereof), soon resulted in
writer’s block, after which Darcy had to admit defeat. Following graduation, she spent some time working on
Celebrate
, a glossy New York women’s magazine. Her Aunt Katherine
– via her hugely successful corporate events business – was good friends with the Editor-in-chief, and had pulled in the favour for Darcy.
After two miserable years of cutting down bland, 3,000-word descriptions of shoes and handbags into even blander 300-word descriptions, as well as struggling to fit in amongst her über-cool
and effortlessly chic workmates, Darcy had just about given up on turning her passion into a way of life – until one day, when she had stumbled into Chaucer’s with the aim of finding a
guidebook that could help with her hopeless lack of fashion nous. Being unable to pass by a bookstore without venturing inside had always been one of her major weaknesses, but this time it had
turned into a blessed stroke of luck.
There had been a ‘Help Wanted’ sign on the door and, on impulse, Darcy had applied there and then. She was interviewed on the spot, upstairs in the café, over a cup of caramel
mocha. The following morning when she got the call from the owner telling her the job was hers, she felt as though all her Christmases had come at once. Imagine spending her days surrounded by
books, being able to pick one off the shelf whenever she wanted, caress the spine, smell the paper . . . heaven!
Darcy quickly discovered that working in a bookstore was in reality more about unpacking boxes and rearranging shelves than sitting curled up in a corner sampling the merchandise. Even so, she
felt that she’d finally found her calling. She quickly forgot the long hours, the lousy pay, the paper cuts and the doom-laden prophecies that books were finished.
This sudden development came as a blow to her Aunt Katherine, who considered it a huge step down in both pay and career prospects. And while there was certainly some truth in the former, Darcy
wasn’t the least bit interested in climbing the media ladder. Unlike the formidable, high-achieving Katherine Armstrong, Darcy just wasn’t made that way, and when growing up had always
been happiest with her nose in a book. One of her earliest and fondest memories was of her mother reading to her before bedtime, all tucked up and cosy together on Darcy’s bed. A love of
reading was something her bookworm parents had instilled in her right from the start, and the family had spent many happy times curled up together escaping into wonderful fictional worlds.
Like her mother Lauren used to say, books were solid proof that ordinary people were capable of creating magic.
Sadly, Darcy’s beloved parents had both died in a car accident when she was twelve years old, after which she and her aunt had been thrown together by circumstance and familial duty. As
per her parents’ wishes, Lauren’s sister Katherine had taken her niece in and overseen her upbringing until Darcy finished school and then at seventeen moved to Manhattan to attend
Columbia. During their years together the two of them had somehow muddled along – as well as a traumatised teenager and a single, thirty-something career girl could.
